Eight Letters
by Got Tea
Summary: Sometimes no words are needed...


**I own nothing. Based on an OTP prompt. Many thanks to Joodiff for the beta, and for making me smile. :)**

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**Eight Letters**

It's late. Quiet, peaceful. The world around him has narrowed to very little; just him, her, the room they are lying in and the sensual, sensory fusion of thoughts and feelings washing over him, surrounding him.

The light is indistinct and subtle, cast by only a handful of candles that burn slowly and steadily, their flames dancing and flickering. It's lazy and entrancing, compellingly fascinating to watch.

The soft scent of warm, melting wax drifts in the air, tickling his nose. Shadows dance and shimmer on the walls, weaving pictures and telling stories, capturing stray moments of imagination.

The scent of her, soft and warm and thoroughly intoxicating, a mix of what is natural and enchanting combined with a hint of subtle, artificial perfume teases his senses, works its way deep into his brain. It calls forth a host of memories that unfold behind his eyes in rich, vividly enthralling detail.

The feel of her skin against his is exquisite, breathtaking. She is curled closely against his chest as he reclines back into the depths of the soft mattress and the even softer pillows. He has an arm wrapped possessively, securely around her waist and her head is tucked into his shoulder, the skin there is still faintly damp with the salty remnants of her tears.

There are so many sensations; there is so much to take in. It's an evocative, intoxicating web of sensory feedback that he is ensnared by, tangled up in. She blinks slowly, still lost in the haze of her grief and he feels her wet, tearstained eyelashes graze across his skin, feels the play of her breath against his neck as she exhales, sinking deeper into him and slowly calming.

He cannot remember the last time he saw her cry, and when he tries to summon a date, a memory, he fails entirely. He supposes that speaks of not only her intense strength and seemingly limitless serenity, but also of the totality of the relentlessly demanding and difficult day she has endured. A day that has reduced her to tears and anger, sadness and pain.

She is wrapped around him, clinging closely, tightly. Desperately seeking comfort, trying to let go of the harsh rasp of reality, if only for a little while. His free hand strokes steadily through her hair, a quiet, soothing rhythm. Wanting nothing more than to strip the horrors away for her, he simply stays where he is, keeping her as close to his heart as he can, protectively held against his body, securely wrapped up in his arms.

He wishes he were stronger, wishes he could do more. He wishes, with all his heart, that he could just tell her. All this time, the days, weeks and months that they have been here like this, been mingled together in this wonderful, shared existence they have, and still he cannot say it. Guilt washes over him like a tidal wave, pouring cold anguish through every fibre of him in a torrent of tormenting distress. Blinking away the sudden stinging in his own eyes, he turns his head, gently nuzzles her hair. He wishes he could tell her, hopes she knows what he feels with every scrap of his soul, all of his being. That she is everything to him. Everything, and more.

His hand ghosts down over her shoulder, his fingertips tracing gentle designs across her spine, her ribs. Her skin is warm and silky soft beneath his touch, and the very tips of his fingers skim over her, always moving, feather light and soothing. Reassuring, comforting. Calming. Adoring.

He feels the steady rise and fall of her chest against his as he presses the lightest of kisses to her hair, his head coming to rest against hers. The tension ebbs from her, her body reacting to his gentle tenderness, heading slowly but surely for the reprieve of deep, easy slumber. The arms hugging him so tightly relax, her grip on him loosening little by little. He feels the slow, easy way her muscles slacken as she seems to melt against him, every last hint of tension and pain steadily ebbing away into nonexistence.

His thoughts turn back to what he wants to tell her, and as if they are an extension of those musings, those feelings, his fingers abandon the swirls and spirals, beginning instead to trace smooth, flowing letters across her back.

One tiny phrase.

Three little words, only eight letters in total.

He traces them over and over again as he breathes in the scent of her hair and listens to the subtle shift in her breathing as it gets slower, lighter. She's drifting now, heavy and pliant against him. He should move, prepare to sleep but he doesn't want to. Lying here like this, holding her this way… it does more for him than anything he ever dared imagine in those stray moments of wondering about her, of wishing and dreaming, hoping for something more.

It's so rare that she shows him the cracks in her armour; the moments where she asks for comfort so few and far between that he's loath to let it end. There's something about the way she is sheltered by him, so tiny against his broad chest, so fragile hidden away under his strong, powerful arms. It fills him with an overwhelming need to protect her from anything, from everything. It pushes buttons and tugs at his heart, and makes him understand, absolutely entirely, just what she is to him, how much she means to him.

He lies there for a long time, letting that thought trail through his mind. He turns it over and over, examining it for any faults, any flaws, but finds none. There is only the pure depth of emotion that surrounds her and everything she is to him.

His fingers are still moving, and he concentrates intently on the letters, imagining them as an invisible tattoo. A mark forever etched upon her skin that only they can see, reminding him, and reminding her too.

She shifts against him, tucking herself closer still and his arms tighten, his embrace enveloping her entirely. He rolls very carefully onto his side, taking her with him and pulling the blankets higher, closer, cocooning them both in a nest of warmth and quiet refuge.

The candles gutter out and the shadows fade away, the room sliding into complete and comfortable darkness. His eyes close and he sighs in pleasure, contentment. He's drifting now too, and it's warm and easy, wonderful. He smiles when he feels the graze of her lips against his shoulder, the whisper of her breath against his skin as she sleeps on.

He wonders what she's dreaming of, doesn't realise she is smiling too, in soft, adoring affection.

"I love you too."

The faint murmur meets his ear, burns indelibly into him. It imprints on his heart exactly what he wanted her to know, what she already knows, what she felt him tell her in his silent, sensual way.

The words are like music, composed especially for him. They wash over him, sink into him. Become part of him.

Her embrace tightens, fingers flowing with exquisite intent over his skin. They trace slowly but distinctly over the broad plains of his back, the ridges of his spine, deliberately forming their own trail of calligraphy, his own matching tattoo.

Her hand falls away and she tells him again, her whisper falling from her lips straight into his ear. It's the last thing he hears, the last thing he feels and remembers, and the only thing he will dream about as he tumbles into deep and blissful slumber.


End file.
